Tuesday, December 13, 2016

LET THE REST OF THE WORLD GO BY (MY AUNT MAE)

Her door was never locked.Not that I recall, at least.And
no one ever knocked.Just whistled
through the screen, or called out as they crossed the threshold.It was this way from the start; in that place
way back in my memory when my mother’s sister, Mae, was relatively young and
lived in their stucco house with the yellow painted side porch there on the
corner of University Avenue in the heart of Blackfoot Idaho. In more recent
years, after Uncle Les was gone and she moved from the old house to that teeny
little place in the retirement community east of Walmart, it was the same.We would drive up from Utah, singing the
Idaho State song every time we crossed the border, and land in the parking lot
just outside her place.Last time we
visited her there she was back in her bedroom in her rocking chair, next to her
little portable exercise machine, her soft beaded buckskin moccasins placed
tidily next to her bed. I asked her if she ever got bored, and she replied that
she hadn’t yet. “Oh, I read, and do a little thinking.And then if I start feeling lonely I just
whistle.”

Aunt Mae was one of seven sisters in my mother’s family.
Seven sisters and three brothers. Those sisters were a distinct cluster of
characters, each one unique and all of them united.There is a sacred thing that happens when the
mother of a large family dies at a relatively young age, the way their mother
did.The family either falls apart or
binds together.These sisters cinched
their mother’s apron strings tight around each other, creating traditions and
memories that sealed them in their sisterhood.They were famous for their sister parties; gatherings for birthdays and
other occasions.My mom missed many of
these when she left the fold and moved to Pennsylvania for a few decades.Still, when she could, she donned a crazy old
hat and joined the party, passing the paper birthday bag back and forth with
crazy silly greetings, playing dueling harmonicas, card games, singing old
familiar songs and telling old familiar stories.

It was Aunt Mae who taught my husband Dave how to fly
fish.Out there in the Arco desert,
smack in the middle of nowhere Idaho, on that pristine piece of water that
flows eternal. The Little Lost River, my favorite fishing spot.We camped under the old owl tree, drifting
off to the rhythmic rippling of water and the whispering Idaho wind working its
way through the sage brush. First light, we could hear the music of her reel as
she pulled the fishing line a full arm’s length from her rod.My mom and I never did embrace fly fishing.We preferred the mind freeing banks by the
deepest holes, and the great mystery of a worm wiggling underwater out of
sight.But Libby and Dave -they stood
there in their waders, upstream or downstream from my mother’s older
sister.When one of us hooked one on our
line, we let out a Native American holler, “Woo-Wooo-Wooo”, our pitch rising
and falling like a bird call.We could
hear each other all morning, and clear into the deepest sunset, hollering our
successes up and down stream.

Last year, before Aunt Mae fell and broke her hip and moved
into the nursing home, we picked her up and took her for a ride.She had bequeathed her car to her
granddaughter Krishna years ago.It was
a noble thing, handing over her keys, knowing she was doing the most
responsible thing.I respect her deeply
for it. I ache for her having to do it.She was 90 years old then, and she figured it was time. Still, it makes
me weepy to think of it. So we picked her up in my van and drove her to
Walmart, where we bought her a CD player to replace her old cassette tape
machine.And then we took a drive out
past the old Asylum, out to the old ranch where she spent much of her
childhood.“There on the corner is where
the school wagon picked us up.”Before
there were buses, children were transported to school on horse drawn
wagons.I imagined my mother and Aunt
Mae climbing up into the wagon bed, their woolen stockings stretched out at the
knees and drooping. I picked a twig of sage and put it in the dip of a handle
in the door inside my car, inhaling as I drove, looking out over the sand dunes
that were the backdrop of my mother’s youth. Aunt Mae played harmonica for us
all the way back.Her breath control was
amazing, and she cupped those arthritic old hands around her instrument,
fluttering her fingers to create a haunting vibrato.Her mournful song echoes in my memory, and I
can hear, if I am still long enough, the distant rippling of water behind it.

Aunt Becky & Aunt Mae

My Auntie Mae’s harmonica sits cold and faithful at her
bedside tonight.There is no more breath
in her.Sometime this morning she left
that old body that housed her spirit for nearly a century.

I imagine there is some sister party going on up there in
that heaven place right now. I imagine all six of them peeking over their
silver lined card table, winking down at my Aunt Becky, the last sister to
remain on earth. Aunt Mae takes her place at the table, her shoulders square,
her chin up.She holds a fan of cards in
her hand, licks her finger and rearranges them, glances over at Mary, trying to
remember how to read her, and lays down her first card.My
mother sits across from her.She is
young, and beautiful, and she is herself once again.It is a happy scene, and if it is not so, then
I do not want to know.

I lay my head on my pillow tonight with this image in my
head; my mother and my beloved aunts are huddled around a card table, or a
kitchen table, or a campfire…the scent of sage and earth and water and campfire
smoke fills my nostrils, and the melodic strains of Let the Rest of the World
Go Bywill play me to sleep. My Aunt
Mae’s toe taps the beat as her chest rises and falls, her head cranked to the
side, her arms drawn across her heart and her hands cupped in front of her
lips. I hear her still. Always will.

5 comments:

Oh, this is so lovely. Love thinking of those seven sisters. That is the constellation Pleiades, the seven sisters. It has been our family's favorite, since there were seven of us (now there are eight and they have multiplied, too, but we've kept the Pleiades as the symbol of our family).

My father, Rodney Parrish, was one of Fred Parrish's four sons, that must have made him your first cousin. Grandpa Fred died long before any of us (his grandchildren) were born- Grandpa passed away right after my father graduated from HS; however my father tried to inspire in his children a love for his father and that which mattered to him. In that vein he taught us family matters. He loved his Aunts and spoke very highly of them. My own memories are vague; however I do remember the harmonica and the humor Grandpa Fred's sisters shared. Like your mother, my father taught us a love for Idaho. I no longer live there but it will always be home. I loved the way you described Central and South-eastern Idaho. It's not the picture book Idaho of Sun Valley and Island Park. South Central Idaho has a raw beauty, a beauty that is as unique, authentic and genuine as my father's Aunts you describe. Though I did not know my Grandpa my did father share with each of his children the love of the land, shared with him by his Father. I was taught to fish on the Little Lost River; in fact, every Memorial Day, together with my siblings I visit that same region and stand on a Mountain Side 30 minutes from Little Lost, near the Antelope river and together we lay a rock on a memorial cairn for my father (Dad passed away 18 years ago). My father, like his father before him captured the essence of what is the best of Idaho. It appears he followed a pattern set by his Aunts. Thanks so much for sharing this.

Aunt Mae was always my favorite because of her energy and vitality. I loved watching them perform their skits and singing at our Family Reunions. I could never really tell if they were Grandma Mable's sisters or Grandpa Fred's (whom I'd never met), because they all had the same Wit, smile, and laughter.(I really did know). I just always knew that we had some really awesome fun Aunties and always wanted to be just like Aunt Mae.My dad Kent played harmonica like her also (family trait). I know where I get my longing to be out on the river fishing still.Carla Parrish Aylworth